


Five Times Lestrade Does Not Arrest Sherlock Holmes and John Watson

by unsettled



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Five Times, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-19
Updated: 2013-12-19
Packaged: 2018-01-05 03:54:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1089316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/pseuds/unsettled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five reactions Lestrade has to walking in on Holmes and Watsons in some form of compromising position.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Lestrade Does Not Arrest Sherlock Holmes and John Watson

1.  
He doesn't think twice about going straight up; he's sure Holmes will have plenty of things to tell him about how wrong he went, and how close he came to losing them the entire case, but that's nothing unusual, and Lestrade thinks he would feel somewhat lost if Sherlock Holmes didn't berate him for something. He opens that door to the siting room without knocking, as usual, and glances about before he steps in. (Also usual; one time Holmes was waiting for someone else and gave him a nasty knock before they sorted themselves out.) 

The first thing he sees, however, is not usual.

Doctor Watson is half sitting, half leaning, against one of the small tables in the room, Holmes standing between his legs, and they are very involved in kissing each other. Hungrily, one might say. The doctor's hand is fisted in the detective's shirt, his head tilted up to meet Holmes', Holmes' hands busy pulling at Watson's shirt, pressing against that skin revealed. Holmes pulls away and begins to layer kisses and light bites on the the doctor's neck. 

Lestrade swallows. Hard. And very quietly, closes the door. 

He counts to ten: goes quietly down the stairs and stomps back up, making sure to hit each and every creak. Counts to ten again outside the door, and after a moment's thought, one more time, before he knocks. Loudly. 

There is a scuffle behind the door, and it is a long moment before the door is opened. For once, Lestrade is glad Holmes thinks he is such a bumbler; he's sure Holmes won't suspect he's seen anything. 

*

2.  
Lestrade's sure Holmes will want to have this newest bit of information as soon as possible; while he runs the risk of disturbing the detective and getting a sound telling off, he knows just as well that if he doesn't tell Holmes now, he'll get the same angry words directed his way, only later. 

He nods to Mrs. Hudson, takes the steps quickly. Opens the door, and the study is … empty. Quiet. He pauses. "Holmes?" 

There's a noise, very faint, from the sofa. "Holmes?" he asks again, and walks over, leans forward and looks over the back of the sofa. 

Holmes is lying on top of Watson, head tilted back to look at Lestrade, their legs tangled and ties askew. Watson stares up at him, worriedly, and he looks considerable more disheveled than usual. There's a moment of silence as they stare at each other. 

Then Lestrade reaches forwards and whaps the back of Holmes' head. "Get a room, you two," he says, and Holmes laughs and ducks his head. Watson goes beet red and he reaches for one of the scattered pillows, throws it at Lestrade's head. 

Lestrade dodges it, shakes his head and walks around the sofa to sit in Holmes' chair. "I thought you'd like to know," he says, "about the developments in the case." 

Watson looks terribly uncomfortable as Lestrade begins to lay out the details, but Holmes is utterly shameless and remains where he is, sprawled across Watson. He'd never admit it, but Lestrade has to admit there's something … comfortable about seeing them like this. He couldn't explain it if he tried, but he'd fight anyone who'd try to punish them for this. 

He gets to the bit about the blank calling card, and Holmes jumps, pushes himself upright with his hands on Watson's stomach; Watson lets loose a startled huff of air. "Do you realize what this means? No, of course you don’t," and Watson shares an exasperated, indulgent look with Lestrade as Holmes launches himself up, staggers over to his table of experiments. 

At least Holmes has someone looking out for him.

 

3.  
When he walks in, at first he thinks Holmes is alone, his back to the door. "Holmes!" he says, jovially, and there is an odd, choked off noise. 

"Lestrade," Holmes says, slightly strangled, and turns his head, gives him a startled, nervous look, an entirely un Sherlock Holmes expression. "Ah-" 

Lestrade takes another step into the room and, quite suddenly, understands. Understands, and after one small, surprised second, begins to laugh. 

His laughter is less than appreciated by Holmes _or_ Watson, who is scrambling up from where he was kneeling before Holmes, hands and mouth occupied by giving Holmes a blow job. He laughs, and laughs, and laughs, to the point where he has to sit down while Holmes hastily stuffs himself back into his trousers, and they stare at him, sliding from worried to confused to slightly indignant. 

"Really, Lestrade," Holmes starts, but Lestrade, finally having calmed down enough to breathe, interrupts him. 

"Finally," he says, and they twitch, together. "We were about to dump you in a cell, handcuffed together. What ever took you so long?" 

Watson blushes, a brilliant shade of red, and Holmes stares, obviously at a loss. It sets him off again, hand slapped over his mouth in an attempt to smother his laughter before it gets out of hand again. He shakes his head, stands. Waves a hand at them. 

"Another time," he says. "It's not that important." 

The walk back to the yard is punctuated by the occasional chuckle, accompanied by the confused looks of passerby’s, but all Lestrade can think of is the look on Clarkie's face when Lestrade tells him who's won the pool. 

*

4.  
He takes the stairs two at a time, despite his tiredness. This is urgent, and he only hopes that Holmes is in his rooms, though he's sent out other officers to a few of Holmes's favorite haunts, just in case. There isn't time for him to go round to them all if Holmes isn't here. 

He is. 

Holmes is straddling one of his large armchairs, resting on Watson's legs, shoes and shirt both disappeared and hair mussed. It's no more skin than Lestrade has seen when Holmes ventures into the boxing pits, but this is an entirely different thing. He stares, all thoughts knocked out of head, and Watson – or possibly Holmes, he can't tell and doesn't want to – moans. "My god," he says, and Watson jerks his head up, meets his eyes with a panicked look. 

Holmes scrambles off Watson, stands next to him, and now Lestrade can see more, more than he wants to, like how both their pants are unbuttoned, Watson's shirt open and untucked, too much skin showing, too – he can feel how red his face is as he jerks his gaze back upwards, but looking at the shocked, slightly fearful expression on Watson's face is no better. 

Holmes, damn him, looks only mildly amused. 

There is a long, terribly awkward moment where they all stare at one another, waiting for the ax to drop. Lestrade thinks of just turning around, walking out, pretending that he's seen nothing. 

"Was there something you needed, Lestrade?" Holmes asks, finally, and yes, he is most definitely amused. Watson drops his head into his hands, hiding his face. 

"Um," Lestrade says. Shakes himself. "I – we need you down at the yard. For a case. I mean. You should see what we've found." He's cursing himself for being all kinds of a fool, letting anything Holmes did rattle him. "You'll need a shirt," he says, and he could hit himself. "I'll just … wait outside," and flees, finally. 

He gets through the rest of the day somehow, unthinking, going through the motions out of pure habit, unable to stop staring at the red marks above Watson's collar. 

*

5.  
Lestrade is smiling as he climbs the steps to Sherlock Holmes' parlor. It's late, but he wants to be the first to give him the good news. Ready to surprise, he opens the door, and his gaze is drawn immediately to the figures on the floor. 

They are all flame washed skin and eloquent limbs, the curve of the doctor's back captivating, the sound Holmes makes as he arches into Watson's thrust breathtaking, and he cannot move for a long moment, trapped by the image before him.

He snaps out of it, fearful they will see him, and quietly, quietly, closes the door. He is out the door and in the cab before he knows it, but the image will not go away, will not stop replying in his mind. He knows he should report them, but he can't, and he doesn't care to examine to closely why he can't. 

Except he is forced to when he returns to his rooms and everywhere he turns, they are there, in the shadows and the light and behind his closed eyelids, until he gives in and lets them fill his mind with angular limbs and scar marked backs, needy noises and wordless movement, and he when he comes, thrusting into his own hand, it is to the thought of them. 

Afterward, he lies back and stares at the ceiling, into the dark, and knows what he wants more than anything in the is world is to be there. With them. To have stepped forward and joined them. To have the doctor's hands ghosting down one side while Holmes' wicked lips traced up the other. 

They will never welcome him in. He knows this, knows they fulfill each other perfectly, that they have no need of another, knows, and it is bitter, so bitter. Watson might give him something out of pity, but Holmes never will; there is a chance he could pry Watson from Holmes, but in the end, that is no comfort, for he cannot bear to think of himself as the cause of their collapse. 

He things he could have kept going so easily without ever having know what he wanted; now, he doesn't know how he will make through each day, wanting and wanting and wanting and never having even the chance of having.


End file.
